Forest Gallery

Across a roadside creek I waded.
On the far bank,
granite jigsaw pieces were elaborately carved.
‘Stumbling through the valley of mold,
in search of a plateau of gold’, read one.
‘You seek an oasis stroll
accompanied by magic flutes
but life is a steeple chase marathon
in concrete boots’, read another.

‘Rebel Chameleon Rising’,
was chiseled in gothic script a metre high.
The cliff face said ‘you cannot be
created or destroyed, only transformed’
The voice that invaded my head said
‘mind is subtle matter and matter gross mind;
they’re zones in a spectrum not two of a kind.’

I followed the roar of a distant chainsaw.
Through miles of marshes I trudged.
Suddenly my torch flickered out.
My flesh crawled as footsteps circled
and I fumbled about,
in the midnight haze, in search of AAA’s.

It seemed the wind spoke
‘From the beginning, only pawns in your ranks.
Who can unearth my abode?
You cannot break my code.
I’m a man of many names
captured in differing frames,
I set the rules in all my games.
I am one with shadow,
camouflaged in sunlight alone’

The breeze was incoherent again.
A hammer and chisel wielding figure,
disguised by a lizard skin mask,
was illuminated by lightning.
Before I could move
it merged with the fog, loomed over me
and swatted my camera against a tree.
It whispered ‘your inquiry ends now.’

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